


I'm Afraid Someone Else Will Hear Me

by clytemnestras



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:04:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clytemnestras/pseuds/clytemnestras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>midas is king and he holds me so tight, turns me to gold in the sunlight</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Afraid Someone Else Will Hear Me

The silence of a bedroom, intersecting with the red sheets, counteracting with the lips are her throat, dragging sounds from her chest and into the ether.  
  
His mouth tastes like the sun on her skin.  
  
If she doesn’t breathe, then the moment is solid, then the gold of his hair brushing her collarbones is more than momentary. If she dies now his arms hold her holy.  
  
If he dies now she won’t hold it against him.  
  
*  
  
Caroline wakes up in Paris. The morning is sentient, she feels like cut glass when the sun passes through her. When the streets cannot swallow her, they spit her against the alleyways that divide like labyrinths.   
  
_(Her and Bonnie and Elena, fourteen and swallowing stories over hot chocolate and painted nails; the beast was cast into an endless prison and Ariadne was thrown away to appease the beast.)_  
  
Caroline can’t be sure which she is, but it never mattered before, it doesn’t now.   
  
She’s in a white dress. She can taste blood on her tongue, and it isn’t hers and a street artist called her an angel so she flashed him her teeth.   
  
She’s careful; only risky in small doses. It’s hardly a breadcrumb trail.  
  
*  
  
His hands around her wrist like cuffs that kiss her bones until they purple. His mouth traces the bruises and suck more to the surface and they fade fast enough that he can kiss more supernovas into her deadwhite skin, so he does, and she whimpers, and he doesn’t stop to smile.   
  
She could break his fingers if she felt like it.  
  
He’d only thank her.   
  
She stretches under him, lets his angles cut into her softness until their bruises match. He lies between her legs dragging bloody tracks down her left thigh and biting pinpricks in the right, then licks the mess away. She’s quivering before his fingers trail anywhere near they should.  
  
It’s only as painful as she asks for.  
  
*  
  
In Barcelona the sun feels like something divine.  
  
Caroline is an angel on the cobbles. The wild cats kiss her wrist when they bite venom into tourists.   
  
Sunset falls on her too soon and it feels like it’s dragging her underwater, a place where she can’t breath and her white wings cannot save her and she knows Barcelona was not her city to claim, as much as she craves it.  
  
She steals a hymn book from every Cathedral she passes through before she melts away.  
  
*  
  
He doesn’t fuck her like other boys did. He doesn’t kiss her throat and swear god is hiding between her legs. He doesn’t go fast to chase the high of her. He doesn’t go slow to love her.   
  
He holds her hips like she’s made of steel and he still has to splinter her skin. He presses himself low against her to feel where they touch at every curve, rolling his hips in slow increments. He fucks her like they’re immortal and the closest thing to heaven is:  
  
Her open mouth and the sounds falling through it.  
  
Her neck and the pulse matching his.  
Her body clutching him closer and her fingernails dragging him away.  
  
He fucks her like heaven isn’t a place they can get to, so he rides out feeling celestial for as long as he can.  
  
*  
  
Rome says no.  
  
It spits in Caroline’s face.  
  
She never asked to be holy, the damnation tastes like bloody wine.   
  
There are too many other ghosts there.   
  
*  
  
With his fingers on her spine she is sleepless and blessed. Her hair tangles under his touch and he crushes her to gold.   
  
She could turn and count his bruises and know he holds more than her, canvassed and perfectly reflecting the stars outside. She could turn and kiss him and and let him turn her to scripture in post coital whispers.  
  
She could turn and hold her head to his chest and fall asleep with his breath warming her throat as the world ends beyond the window and no one would remember the ashes but them.  
  
She lets him curl around her instead.  
  
*  
  
Caroline almost expects to wake up in New Orleans, drinking the hello off of his lips.   
  
She doesn’t.  
  
New York feels like someone else’s home, her mattress a dirty heap on the floor. Nothing has felt more like the right kind of wild. She wanders the galleries for days hunting for something that feels decadent the way she does. In a moment there’s a painting she notices, something about the paint strokes familiar as the fingers on the back of her neck.  
  
Klaus presses his lips to her ear and says something dangerous like, hello, I’ve been waiting for you.   
  
She smiles and tells him next time he’ll learn to wait longer. 


End file.
